


Heights

by fanfreakintastic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-27 08:13:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2685614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfreakintastic/pseuds/fanfreakintastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock struggles to make up for the pain he has caused, and makes a long over-due deduction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Mending of Fears (and Other Things)

There are not a lot of things that John Watson is afraid of.   
Sherlock has only observed evidence of fear coming from John a handful of times, and they all were just. He heard it strongest in the man’s voice while Sherlock was standing atop that hospital. He heard it then and knew that his friend was fearing loss, and that he was fearing that he was wrong.  
He must have been fearing that he was wrong, right? That must be the case. John was a steady man, but he must have doubted Sherlock. The only other explanation would be that he cared a lot more than Sherlock thought he did-a lot more than he had ever hoped that he would.  
He saw fear in the other man’s eyes only seconds at a time; and he had no idea what he was thinking about when the shadow of it shot past the dark blue around his pupils. He had no idea.  
There was no fear of the danger they partook together; the adrenaline was a love of John’s.  
The day Mary died, fear must have been there. It only made sense for it to be in John. But Sherlock hadn’t seen it. He had chalked this up to faulty data collection. The baby was fine, and John must look different when both relieved and afraid. Emotions in others were never Sherlock’s specialty, and that must be the reason he only saw the guarded soldier in John when the doctors announced that while the squirming infant was safe, his wife was touch and go.  
Sherlock hadn’t questioned this at the time, just like how he hadn’t questioned when John began to move his things back into 221B in the wee hours of the morning a few days after the death was announced. He hadn’t questioned why he was wearing that baby pouch thing, the one that looked like a backpack you wore in the front and kept your offspring in like a kangaroo.   
Sherlock had catalogued all this in his notebook on John, the black composition notebook filled with theories and things about the army doctor that he used to write down data in to try to figure out how all of these things could make the man so different.  
And it all had made sense to him. Enough sense so the static between his ears was calmed.  
But this-this was new. This didn’t make sense.  
His foot was on the first rung of a ladder, and he and John were following a man who had been murdering people with fruits in artful, adorable ways. They had been looking for him for a round a week, and they had finally found him at the local grocery store (they were getting formula for the baby-Sherlock had insisted upon going so that he could read the chemicals present in all of the different brands. He had a theory that the reason that most people were abbhorently stupid was because ethey had been drinking idiot juice since birth.) They had seen the man observing cucumbers in a way cucumbers should never be observed when they chased him down the street, until he had gotten himself on top of the bank.  
John still had the baby in his kagaroo-pouch thingy, but behind Sherlock he was the one doing the whining. “NO, no, don’t go up there. It’s not worth it. Come down here, we need to….we need to go. Stop.”  
“Don’t be ridiculous, John. If we go up the ladder, we’ll likely meet him at the top. The stairs will not be kind to him, he has a gut that could face off with Mycroft’s.”  
“Sherlock. Please.”  
John’s hand was on his coat sleeve, pulling him around and down to earth. There was a plea in his voice, a begging, and an undeniable shred of fear in his eyes. Sherlock’s brows furrowed and he stilled, looking at his friend intently in the eyes, searching and searching and not understanding.  
And then the baby let out a wail.  
“Oh, do shut up,” he said to the tiny little girl, rippong his gaze form the soldier’s and taking out his phone.  
“What are you doing?” John asked. He was worried now, the fear was more cloaked but still there.  
“Texting Gastone where the killer is. He can deal with it. I have baby-bottle research to do.”  
John smiled faintly. “Thank you.”  
“For what?”  
“For..listening to me.” He looked down self-consciously,”normally I wouldn’t offer you thanks but the baby’s here and I want her to know her manners.”  
“Ah. I didn’t stop for you, anyway. It was for science. And she’s not gathering a lot of information right now. Babies are most receptive to new knowledge when they are close to sleep or sleeping.”  
“Is that why you’ve been coming in our room in the dead of night like some sort of ghost? What have you been whispering to her? What are you trying to feed into her brain?”  
They were walking now, back to the grocery store where they still needed carrots and diapers.  
“Nothing.”  
“No-I think I remember. I heard you once, and I’m pretty sure it’s always the same thing.”  
“Aren’t you a detective.”  
“Curling? Surly?”  
Sherlock began to walk faster now, hands behind his back.  
“I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about.”  
John caught up with him, face alight with anger and amusement, “You’ve been saying Sherly! You’re trying to condition her into thinking that she’s named after you!”  
“I thought we were finished solving mysteries for today.”  
“For the last time,” John said, a chuck;e on the edge of his tonge that Sherlock definetly never thought about, “her name is Margaret.”  
After that, things went back to the odd rhythm of normal that they had been ever since the day it had become the three of them. Sherlock would go on cases whenever it suited him, John tagging along, sometimes with the baby on his chest and sometimes with the baby staying with Hudders. John went to work only sometimes, the clinic ensuring him that he could come in whenever he wanted. They weren’t going to fire a widower with a little girl, certainly not one as talented as John H. Watson.

Sherlock jotted down the new data, and awaited the opportunity to test to see if his theory was accurate. He would have to do so inconspicuously-the doctor could be rather defensive about his weaknesses.  
Sure enough, a few days later the baby was with Mrs. Hudson and they were awaiting to have a meeting with a very important public figure who Sherlock suspected was in fact three people, when John asked what floor it was on.  
“The roof.”  
“The roof? Oh, do we have to? Margaret hasn’t seen me in at least 20 hours she’s going to start thinking Mrs. Hudson is he mother and the fridge is her father. I can’t have that.”  
Sherlock’s blood ran cold. He kept his voice as neutral as possible.  
“Would you like to stop accompanying me on cases?”  
John parted his lips. Clearly, Sherlock could not hide his fear and worry from John, no more than John could hide his fears from Sherlock. All things came into light given time.  
“Oh, Christ, of course not. Can we just-or can we sit this one out?”  
“I suppose I could conduct the meeting over the phone.”  
Relief was pouring out of John’s smile. Sherlock knew that it would be harder to extrapolate necessary information over the phone, but the case was not worth hurting his friend. He’d done enough of that fro a lifetime.  
Normally, he would have waited for a third opportunity to test his hypotheses; at least three trials is optimal. But they rarely had the time, what with little Sherly screaming all through thenight and John’s day job and Sherlock’s very important blog. So he went straight to trying to figure out a way to collect more data and at the same time cure John of his afflictions. He tried not to think about how excited he was to see John distressed over the little issue of being higher above the ground than is usual, how the idea of seeing a new side of John was thrilling to him. He tried not to think about that, because it may come off as not normal and it made him hope for things and hope was a waste of time. He should be grateful for what he has now, what he came so close to losing forever; John under the same roof, watching him work and keeping his pulse steady.  
And yet standing out in front of the London Eye, collar up for both warmth and style (though he’d never admit the latter aloud) , his heart is pounding. It’s freezing out, the middle of December, and normally the Eye would be packed with tourists but he had had Mycroft slow things down today. All it took was a few fake tourist attractions to take some of the crowd other places, so that Sherlock could focus on his experiment without the useless bustle of breathing and moving and pointless goings on around him. He could handle it most of the time, but he didn’t want to spend any fragment of his energy filtering his ears in a way that would make things less sharp-not when there was this to do. Not when John needed help.  
John had the baby, which Sherlock had advised against, but since Sherlcok had sprung this outing on him and Mrs. Hudson was out on a date (with a man who has two cats and has The Office UK all but memorized, along with rare collectors memorablilia) John had shoved the baby in then little pouch thing and headed behind Sherlock in a huff.  
Mycroft was there, apparently searching the crowd for a young boy who’d gone missing a couple of months back. He was some sort of genius and his dad was a US congressman. Or maybe he was looking for a US congressman who’s son was a genius. Sherlock hadn’t been paying a lot of attention.  
When Sherlock started moving toward the line-only around ten people, thanks to Mycroft’s public diversions-John immediately started to protest.  
“What are we doing here? Are you getting in line? Is this for a case? You have to talk to me, Sherlock, for God’s sake-“  
He just kept going on. Sherlock zoned it out. He didn’t like listening to John when he was this upset-it stressed him. He had planned this. He would wait out the protests and John would stay because John always did, except for, well, that time that he didn’t but that was Sherlock’s fault, all his fault and he had told himself not to think about this why was he thinking about this. Something about the catch in John’s voice triggered a memory of how pained it was when he was taking Sherlocks pulse on the pavement and all his fault all his fault all his-  
And they were at the front of the line.  
He turned to John and took a breath. They had approximately 3 minutes until it was time for them to get on.  
“John. I have observed that you have a fear of-“  
“Of what? My time being wasted?”  
“-heights.”  
Johns lips looked like they didn’t know what o do. He paled.  
“I want to help you. If we go on here and see how you handle it; it’ll show you that you have nothing to fear. It’s basic psychology-you just have to face it.”  
John looked to the side and then back at Sherlock, trying to conceal anger and panic at the same time. “No. Absolutely not.”  
“This is the best way-I can help. This is a common fea-“  
“I don’t need your sodding help, thank you.” He turned to head off but stopped for a second. The he twisted back at Sherlock and stood in front of him, a little close. He was fuming and emitting nerves. This was not the soldier Sherlock spent everyday with, this was the voice with the cracks.  
“I’m not-I’m not afraid of blood heights. I’m afraid of you being high up. I’m afaird because last time-last time…the..”  
He trailed off.  
The epiphany spread over Sherlock’s face slowly, and he looked crushed. All the things he had tried not to think about, the way he had rationalized what he had done to John as being the right thing for everyone. All of those justifying walls came crumbling down. He froze for a moment and then calmly took the pouch thingy off John and walked a few feet to put it on Mycroft. There was no protest-or maybe he just didn’t hear them over the voice replaying in his head. He made it back to the front of the line to John, and grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the cart, shutting the door behind them-which is something you can only get away with if your sibling is the entire britsish government.  
He put his hand on either side of John’s face, fingers in his hair and thumbs on his temples. John flinched a little, but Sherlock was steady. It was his turn to keep John’s pulse under control, to keep him the right amount of alive.  
“This is what I have to do to get you at your most attentive. I know-I’ve been taking notes. I-I miscalculated. I want to help you with your fear, and I was mistaken as to what it was. This makes more sense-I just, I avoided the possibility because I didn’t like the idea that I hurt you as much as I did.”  
This is not how they usually talked. He didn’t tell John that he’d observed him, and they didn’t use words like ‘hurt.’ But this was necessary. A change was necessary. Sherlock had hope that he hadn’t had before, but more importantly, he needed to help save John Watson in this small way after John had saved him so many times over.  
“You’re afraid of me leaving. Which I will never do. Not again. You’re also afraid of me lying to you, which makes what I just said hard for you to believe because even after all this time it’s still hard for you to trust me. Which I understand. I do. So I’m making a safe space-this place, this awful touristy eye thing that I don’t understand the purpose of, to be honest, is the safe space. I will never lie to you again, and if that’s too hard for you to believe, at least swallow that I will never lie to you in this pointless eye.”  
John nodded faintly. He wasn’t the everyday soldier right now, but he wasn’t the man on the pavement-he was different. Completely vulnerable. Unhidden. New.  
“I won’t leave you because those two years were some of the worst years of my life. I won’t say the worst-because, well, before I met you things would go dark for days and then too bright-and nevermind, that’s another thing entirely. I just want you to know that I’m probably more invested in this-association or friendship or whaterver it is than you are. Or at least that’s what I thought. That was my reason.”  
His voice is soft, and usually he has more time to think about his words before he says them but right now he knows that he has to not over-process them, or John will still hurt and we can’t have that. This is harder than he thought it would be.  
“But new data has come to light. A friend wouldn’t care that much, would he? I’m not sure, I’m not an expert on friendships. If I was, then it would have been easier for me to find out where the line was. It would have been easier for me to tell if you..if you..well, things would have been different if I had been better at reading between the lines. If I had been more normal.”  
John’s protest catched in his throat, and Sherlock moves his thumb lightly back and forth to say he’s not finished. John can see that this is all real, if barely decipherable, and he lets him go on.  
“I’ve come to a conclusion. A few conclusions. I will not leave you, because the last thing I want to do is hurt you. Again. And my mission today was to relieve you of your fear because I owe you at least that. And in order to relieve you of your fear, I need to prove that I won’t leave you, so despite my lack of knowledge in the department of friendships and where lines are and how this will go over-it is necessary for me to share some intel with you.”  
John is waiting, John is eager.  
“And I’ve known it for a long time. It’s-I love you,” his light blue eyes cautiously meet John’s dark blue ones, “And to clarify, I mean the w-“  
And then he was being pulled down into John’s lips, crashing in a way that was long overdue. He felt high, like he was dreaming. They kissed slowly, and it was everything Sherlock had dared not ever hope for. He moved his tongue into John’s mouth, the warmth as comforting and perfect as the doctor had always been, and he explored and memorized.  
The went around the eye three times, barely coming up for breath.  
. . . .  
The damn baby wailed and wailed in Mycroft’s arms. He had considered putting on the puch thing, but wanted to avoid the embarrassment of having the public see him startto don it only to give up because it was too small. The diets and exercise had been helping slowly, but John was very small and compact. A small compact shape that his brother was most likely enjoying right now. He made a point of not looking at the eye, so as not to see anything he wouldn’t be able to delete.  
The baby kept wailing. “Would you just be quiet,” Mycroft muttered to the bal of fat, “You’re making a fool out of yourself.” Apparently, the infant did not appreciate his constructive criticism. It started to cry with more reverance, and Mycroft cried out to Anthea to take it away to Baker Street to Mrs. Hudson. He gave her instructions to have Mrs. Hudson wait in 221B until the boys arrived home. Anthea made a small comment about how Hudders was twice the mother Mycroft would ever be. Insulted by her snide reference to his failure, he spat quietly, “At least I never ran a drug cartel.” But she was already gone into the sleek car, and he was alone in the cold.


	2. Magnificence and Its Reasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pieces come together.

Frankly, Sherlock would have had John in the London Eye right then for the whole public to see. But, there was no rush. They had all the time in the world. 

Roughly 18 Hours Later

“Why exactly did it take you so long?”  
John is holding the dozing baby, who had been returned with a wink by Mrs. Hudson a few hours ago, and making tea. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, watching John and reading about a few newfound rarebreeds of poisonous flowers.  
Sherlock’s eyebrow quirked upwards, “Take me so long to what?”  
“Figure it out. You’re a detective, for Christ’s sake, and I was usually near you and I’m not that good at hiding things. So why didn’t you deduce it earlier on?”  
Sherlock put down John’s laptop and looked at him directly, telling the truth which he was determined to do perpetually from now on. At least to John. “People’s feelings, they’re not really my area. Not up and close and alive. I didn’t want to gove myself false hope. You, however, are positively dripping with knowledge on the subject. Why didn’t you figure it out.”  
John dipped his tea bag in and looked down at it with more focus than was necessary, “Well, you’re you. You seemed ambivalent. You didn’t consider yourself someone who had friends let alone more,” he stirred it with a spoon, “and you’re sort of dashing. And while I might be able to fool women into thinking I’m extraordinary, I’m rather ordinary looking. So I didn’t think I would attract you in such a way that make you want to change your views on relationships.”  
And then Sherlock, in all his dressing gown glory, was right in front of John, taking the mug from his hands and setting it back down on the counter.  
“Physical beauty exists, but it is often misrepresented, misdefined, and entirely misunderstood. I’m meant to fall in love with full lips, thinness, giant eyes, and according to some ignorant people, only a woman. But that’s ridiculous. You are unbelievably beautiful, John Watson. If anyone else had control over your body, if it would be as….attractive to me. You make it beautiful. The way you move it, defend it, give it, and take it makes it magnificent. Because you are magnificent.”  
John looked up at him at last, and then because there wre too many words and not enough time pulled him down for a slow, smiling kiss.  
Pulling away, he said, “You know you could’ve just said, "‘What are you talking about, John? You’re bloody hot.’”  
“’Bloody hot?’ That hardly sounds like me.”  
“I’m just glad you didn’t wake up Margaret. I’d have had to kill you. Which would be a shame, seeing as how we just got this wonderful whatever up and started.”  
“I’ll take her up to her crib.”  
“Alright, tea?”  
“Of course not.”  
And then Sherlock was up the stairs into what was probably just Margaret’s room now, and John could here him whispering to the baby. Was he doing it again?  
John moved closer and heard him whisper to the baby, “Sherly.”  
“Sherlock!” John yelled, with the frustration at the level of a couple dozen eyeballs in the freezer.  
Then the baby began to cry and Sherlock and John laughed amidst the homely chaos.


	3. In The Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff. This whole fic is just the fluffiest fluff in fluffville.

Sherlock has been against many opponents. He has slayed many a dragon in his day. From Jim to smoking (well, almost) he has won time and time again.

Which is why it is so strange that the flu is absolutely killing him.

He’s lying on his bed. Which is his and John’s bed nowadays. That thought makes him smile a little, which sends ripples of brain pain to a pulsing throb. He moans and all of the sudden John is in the room, kneeling beside the bed.

“My God, Sherlock, stop whining about. You sound like you’re dying.”

“I think, I fear that I am.” It was the flu. John was sure. 

Sherlock grasped John’s collar, “Kiss me, John.”

John obliged, ever so quickly because even in a sickly sad state Sherlock was, of course, irresistible.

“That was a quote, you know,” Sherlock said, fingers tapping on John’s collarbone. “It’s the last words of Admiral Horatio Nelson. He was talking to his second in command. Of course, he didn’t say ‘John,’ he said ‘Hardy.’ But Hardy is a silly name; I don’t want to risk it being my last word just for the sake of a true quotation.”

“You are not dying and I am not your second in command.”

 

“Wellllll I’ve never served and I don’t have a rank. I am, however, technically higher than you in both height and in the intoxication sense.”

He may have had a few painkillers.

 

John left the room, miffed that his height had been mentioned.  
He came back and kissed Sherlock on the head,  
“Just on the off chance.”

Six Months Later

Mike Stamford and Angelo have very similar outlooks on the world. They do not, however, communicate as much as they should. They have both known that Sherlock and John would end up this way, filling each other’s gaps in both metaphorical and literal ways. (They had a right giggle about that one.) 

 

So it only makes sense that due to the mix of their support and humor, they would put a fake ring in one of the boys’ food when they sit down to eat at Angelo’s. 

There are only a few issues.

Due to the lack of adequate communication, Angelo puts a fake ring in Sherlock’s steak (which John is making him eat) and Mike puts a fake ring in John’s burger. 

The plan was for one of them to see the ring and say yes, not for both of them to swallow the rings. (They were semiprofessional detectives, for Christ’s sake.)

Sherlock feels it in his mouth but it’s too late, and it’s blocking his airway but he can tell that he is in no terrible danger. His first idea is that a lousy assassin has juts tried to take him out, and it a slightly deoxygenized moment, he wonders if Mary has come back from the dead. Then he identifies the object as a ring, and is completely, utterly still, euphoria washing over him and almost pushing out all of the discomfort caused by the metal against his windpipe. It’s quite a big ring, and he is trying to speak to no avail.

He sees that John is, curiously, in the same situation, and while he knows that the size of the ring in John’s throat should most definitely hinder John’s ability to speak, John does so anyway. But, then again, John has been doing the impossible since the day they met.

 

“Ye-yes. I’ll marry you.”


	4. Astronomers

So many hours had been filled with waiting. In his life, Sherlock had spent uncountable compilations of seconds hoping and sitting through whatever was happening around him. He had to do this all his years in school; he had to tune out the words that he wasn’t supposed to feel so fully. He had to sit and watch as Mycroft told him all his flaws, and he had to put his mind on a low setting while angry ugly bright things ran around him in what felt like an angry ugly world. He had to let it push him around, and tell him what he was and what he wasn’t. But this whole time he was waiting for more than relief, he was waiting for John Watson.

 

He was waiting for the bliss that is waking up next to a breathing reminder that the world isn’t all bright, fuming, and hideous. 

 

Even after he had found him, even after he had him living in the same space as Sherlock, he had to wait for John to consider him as a friend. Which was one of the first seemingly impossible things John did for him. He hadn’t seen all of the events the way they really were-he didn’t see that John had loved him from the start. He’d been too hurt by what his everyday had been for so long.

 

Then he gave it all up for the sake of the continuous beating of that amazing heart. 

 

Then he had to wait for John to come back to him. He thought he’d be alone forever, looking at that empty chair. He was prepared for that; he would’ve survived it. But he didn’t have to. Because John came back, and now things were smooth and easy and they made sense. He didn’t look at the clock anymore, because this was what he had always been waiting for.

 

It’s been days and days and days since their lips met for the first time many feet above the ground, and Sherlock has locked away every single touch and breath in his mind palace forever. There’s mist in the London air, little crystals in his inky hair, and John’s hand is pulling him out of a cab. He hasn’t the foggiest idea where they are going. He could’ve deduced it, but he didn’t try. Being surprised by John was always delightful, and hardly ever dangerous. He lets the cold air fill him, and he allows his nerve endings to take in all they possibly can. Somehow, even after all this time, the feel of John’s formerly warring hand is a miracle. 

 

Then he sees the ferris wheel and he laughs at it, because it is so strange that they, being odd twisted things miles away from normality, care for a place so many people with flippant little minds went everyday. No one was there now, at this twilight hour. Sherlock suspected that John had had Mycroft arrange this, but he doesn’t question anything. The baby who has been keeping them awake for longer than any serial killer ever did is sound asleep at home with Molly Hooper.

 

The wheel is spinning slowly, and John doesn’t say anything as he leads Sherlock onto it. He sits with him and looks at the stars that neither of them know very much about. 

 

“Who’s idea was it to name all of the stars?” John asks, shoulder rubbing against Sherlock’s warmly, their fingers still intertwined.

 

“And what gave them the right?”

 

Sherlock licks his lips, “I don’t know. I think some don’t need labels. They should be allowed to burn and twinkle anonymously if that suits them.”

 

“I think they want names and stories.”

 

“You would know better than I. I’d say we, you with your medical degree and me with my infinite wisdom, are more than qualified to diagnose them with their histories and names.”

 

And so they sit, peering at the reflections of the stars in each other’s eyes and touching gently and contentedly. They sit and redefine the galaxies.


End file.
